Again I looked into his deep eyes and finely chiselled features. Yes, it was the type one sees beneath the half-ruined porticoes of ancient palaces, where young men play the _tambouritza_ and young maidens listen behind latticed windows; where old men dream dreams of the Ragusan Republic and its vanished glory, when it vied with Venice in maritime power, although it never gained her ascendency. Now it is dying a slow and a forgotten death, beneath shading palm trees, while its warrior sons, the bluest blood of Dalmatia, are sent to dig coal in Pennsylvania, and its _guslar_ minstrels make music for the merry-makers at Coney Island. What a fine specimen this is which Ragusa has sent us! Ask the secretary about him and he will tell you that he is intelligent, cleanly, temperate, and frugal; yet in Pennsylvania he is just a "Hunky." Other members of the Young Men's Christian Association are loth to see him on the gymnasium floor with them, and to most Americans he is only an undesirable immigrant from Southern Europe--something to be dreaded. "I am an Italian," very proudly says the next man who grasps my hand, and, looking into his face, I ask doubtfully, "From Italy?" for his face shows Slavic lines. "From Triest," he adds. Ah! now I understand. That is where Italian, Slav, and German meet--and fight, as is the custom of all good Austrians; for each race claims superiority over the others, and in most of them flows the blood of all three races. "You must come to see my kindergarten and my church." I promise; for he is quite an important factor in the redemption of Little Italy. The next man is a Slovene from the neighbourhood of Agram, the next a Slovak, then a Pole, and "last but not least," a Bohemian. All these are gathered here beneath the sheltering wing of this archangel Gabriel, janitor of the Young Men's Christian Association and self-appointed, beneficent dictator and preserver of the peace. He preserves the peace by carrying out, bodily, offending or offensive visitors--a task for which he is well fitted. One of his ancestors plunged into the thick of Turkish foes, dragged a magnificent Pasha from his horse and carried him across the intervening space in the face of a rain of bullets, one of which struck him. He fell with his burden; but, quickly recovering his footing, held the Pasha safe by the throat with one hand, pulled a pistol with the other, and in a moment argued the distinguished prisoner into taking him upon his shoulders. Carried thus by the Turkish officer, he came riding into camp and presented his trophy to his commander, saying, "This is a fine horse I have brought to you, my captain;" and then fell swooning to the ground.